Five Senses
by vicodin-vixens
Summary: Five Senses from two perspectives. Warning: Slash We own nothing but Percocet and snot-rags.
1. House

**A/N: Though we've seen variations on this idea before, we'd like to take a minute to acknowledge that it was nekocat's original "5 Senses" that we took our inspiration from. Thanks nekocat.**

**1.** He's interesting, in some indefinable way, the guy at the bar.

Doctor James Wilson. An oncology resident at Mount Sinai in Chicago.

This is his first conference.

Brown hair, brown eyes, and a yellow manila envelope that he carries with him everywhere.

House has been watching; is still watching.

He sees Wilson tense as Billy Joel begins afresh, and suddenly House's gut feeling is rewarded in a cascade of shattering glass.

Interesting, it seems, is just the tip of the iceberg.

House is watching with a grin. He never wants to stop.

**2.** Wilson doesn't laugh often. Not really.

He smiles. He smirks. And, when it's appropriate, he allows a warm chuckle.

But genuine _laughs_ are rare.

House collects them.

He imagines them like the rock collection he had when he was little, hidden in the cigar box under his bed.

Treasures unnoticed, unexamined, by anyone but him.

He guards them more jealously because of this.

Each jangling laugh is a sonic glimpse beyond Wilson's measured control, an auditory look at the real Wilson, who eats Goldfish crackers and actually enjoys Police Academy movies.

House no longer needs cigar boxes and secret hiding places, but the collection is more important than ever.

**3. **House bites his tongue so hard he tastes blood.

He hears the voice and bites harder still, focusing on the metallic tang.

"Do you, James Evan Wilson, take this woman, Bonnie Louise Michner to be your lawfully wedded wife..."

**4. **House watches through his office window as Wilson chats with a blandly pretty nurse from Peds.

He touches her arm gently. Emphasizing a point, maybe? She lights up, her smile suddenly making her beautiful.

Wilson as King Midas. One touch and each woman is golden.

Wilson is a tactile person. His touches are warm and reassuring.

House doesn't trust them. They're too indiscriminate, too egalitarian.

House is not a tactile person. His touches _mean_ something.

He limps out into the hallway and claps a hand on Wilson's shoulder. "I'm starving," he says. "You're buying."

**5. **All hotel rooms smell the same.

Like anonymity.

Wilson's is no different.

It's almost an absence of smell, a vacuum.

Glaring evidence that _this_ can never be _home._

House looks around the room that Wilson has lived in for so long, lives in rather than stay with him, and sighs.

He's an idiot for coming.

Wilson is working. House had to bribe the desk clerk for the key.

221 Baker Street holds all his worldly possessions. It's warm, and comfortable, and smells of hardwood, and long gone dinners, and old books.

But he had to come to this vacant, soulless hotel room to get a sense of _home_.


	2. Wilson

1.

Wilson savours the feeling of House's hand on his shoulder; the weight of it, the warmth it created, the way it seems to awaken every nerve in Wilson's body.

In the same sense, Wilson fights hard to ignore the feeling of House's thigh against his as they sat watching television together. Wilson never catches a word of the program, he is too intently focused on the gentle pressure of House's denim-clad leg.

2.

Glass-walled offices seem to be somewhat of a mixed blessing, Wilson thinks.

On one hand, he can catch glimpses of House whenever he wants to, simply by strolling past House's office.

On the other hand, Wilson seems to be making an increasing amount of excuses to do so.

3.

House never talks simply to hear himself. He always has something important to say, even if he sometimes takes an indirect approach in delivering the message.

Wilson sometimes forgets to listen to the actual words; he gets lost in the familiar pitch and timbre of House's voice.

4.

If Wilson closes his eyes, he can almost always conjure up the specific scent that seems to embody House.

He is a contradiction in smells; fresh like clean laundry, spicy like Thai food, citrusy like lemons, all with an underlying scent that is distinctly, uniquely House.

Nothing Wilson has ever smelled comes remotely close.

5.

Wilson spits minty-fresh toothpaste into the sink and reflects back on the taste he has just rinsed from his mouth.

House.

Warm and faintly spicy, an undercurrent of bitter coffee with layers of sweetness all combined into the most complex, erotic flavours Wilson has ever sampled.

Wilson looks back into the mirror, where his reflection is joined by House's. He turns and captures that mouth once again, eager to have another taste.


End file.
